I am backpacking in the Brooks Range of Alaska. It is early autumn. From a lofty vantage I gaze across a mile wide valley, carved by the raging torrent that is my immediate concern. I must get to the other side. The river is "milky" with glacial silt so I can only guess the depth. I tote a 60 pound pack, and cameras, to make things even more interesting.

I secure clothes and cameras in plastic and hoist the pack, leaving straps unsecured, just in case I need to jettison my precious gear. It's hard to imagine being that desperate, but it beats drowning. At least alive I have options, albeit few that are appealing without gear. I take a bold step into the icy melt and feel the current dig away the gravelly foundation beneath my bare feet. By midstream I am waist deep and losing the feel of everything underwater. Progress in infinitesimal. I begin to panic, which summons a surge of adrenaline. I thank my adrenal glands for the help.

Finally I heave my exhausted body onto the blessed opposite bank and pant desperately as I thank the river gods for safe deliverance. It was way more risk than I bargained for but I had emerged unscathed, more or less. Unless you count whimpering. Surely I must be wiser for the wear.

As I lay still I feel warm-blooded life slowly return to my lower half. In a semi-trance I watch the sun, red and enormous, set in the western sky and the moon rise opposite. The sounds of wind and river compliment the celestial dance and I reach into the pack for my tent. I can't think of a better place to spend an evening.